


A Study In Moonlight: The Early Years

by FloriaTosca



Series: A Study In Moonlight [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ableism, Asexual Character, Autistic Character, College, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, First Meetings, Gen, Meet the Family, Mostly Dialogue, Neurodiversity, Sherlock Holmes References, Slice of Life, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, Urban Fantasy, Washington, ridiculous names, this may develop a plot eventually but i wouldn't hold my breath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloriaTosca/pseuds/FloriaTosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One's an eccentrically brilliant Sherlock Holmes expy.  The other's a nice, sensible, Hufflepuffish young woman with Hidden Depths.  Together, they... deal with the same issues many young people encounter, have homoromantic subtext, and deduce things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Viviane and Mrs. Malifaux: Conversation 1

**Author's Note:**

> Transphobia and ableism warnings apply to this chapter.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Sebastian.”

“Mum, how many times do I have to tell you, it's Viviane.”

“Sebastian, sweetie, be reasonable about this. It was cute when you were twelve and wanted to grow up to be Sherlock Holmes, but don't you think you're a little old for this sort of thing by now?”

“I'm not being fanciful, Mother, I'm transgender. Didn't you read the articles I sent you?”

“I still think you're being a bit drastic. Can't you just be gay?”

“No, mother, I cannot 'just be gay.' Among many other issues, I am not sexually attracted to men.”

“Well, then, whyever do you want to be a woman so much? It can't be for the clothes. I've seen how you dress, stomping around in that big silly coat of yours and wearing scarves in the middle of May.”

“Mother, we live in Western Washington. Medium-weight wool is often appropriate until the middle of July – not that this is relevant to the issue at hand. Gender identity isn't just a matter of what you wear and whom you have sex with. Would you get a sex change if it meant you'd never have to wear nylons again and had a chance of dating Stephen Fry?”

“Well, I'd certainly consider it.”

“Look – Mum – I'm sorry I brought it up. What did you want to tell me?”

“Your cousin Belladonna's wedding is in three months, and you need to get fitted for your suit.”

“It's three months away? Somebody tell that poor man to run when there's still time!”

“Sebastian! That was in very poor taste. Just because you are incapable of relating normally to other humans doesn't mean you have a right to begrudge Bella her chance at happiness.”

“That's not this issue... oh, forget it. But – if I'm not going to be in the wedding party, and I assume I'm not, why do I need to go to all this trouble for a specific new outfit? I own formal clothes.”

“Sebastian, darling, I've seen the kinds of things you wear when left to your own devices. I am not going to let you ruin Bella's special day and humiliate me by showing up in your pajamas or whatever nonsense gets into your head this time. It would make the whole business so much less stressful for me if I could just be assured that you'd be properly dressed and behaving yourself.”

“I am a legal adult, and certainly capable of dressing myself, so I don't see why the hypothetical possibility of me showing up in something blatantly inappropriate for the occasion should embarrass you, as long as I'm not violating cultural standards of modesty. Look, Mum the university library has etiquette books. Why not just tell me what type of wedding Donnie and her new chew-toy are having and what the theme is, if applicable, and I'll come up with something appropriate?”

“Sebastian, why must you be so stubborn about this?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that, with all due respect, Mother, most of the formal clothing you've bought for me over the years has been, I'm sorry to say, unacceptably itchy.”

“You're going to be so childish about a little thing like that?”

“I have my reasons. Do you remember what Miss Flora said about my sensory issues?”

“Miss Flora coddled you far too much and didn't know what she was talking about, as far as I'm concerned. I have no idea how someone who's ostensibly a trained professional could think someone who talks as much as you and has your miserable math skills might possibly be autistic. No, Sebastian, there's nothing wrong with your brain apart from your attitude problem and a few sociopathic tendencies.”

“With all due respect, Mother, I would beg to differ. Think of it this way – when I want not to pay attention to something, sometimes that takes energy, with me.”

“Well, you must spend most of your time dead on your feet, then, considering how much regard you pay my feelings.”

“... so when I'm around a big crowd of people, like at a wedding reception, there are so many more things I have to actively tune out if I want to be able to concentrate on eating, or polite conversation, or whatever else it is people do at wedding receptions. When I'm trying to be civil in the middle of a crowd, over the noise of the DJ, with my nose full of someone else's cologne, the last thing I need is the distraction of my clothes growing sharp edges and digging into my clavicle.”

“You know, Sebastian, you'd have a lot more energy to spend acting like a normal, civilized human being if you stopped trying to uncover people's extramarital affairs from the mud on their shoes and didn't take so much time making excuses for yourself.”

“Maybe it would be better if we wrapped this up, Mum? Send me the details of the wedding when you get them, give Dad my fondest regards, and if Belladonna asks, tell her that I wish she and her fiance are very happy together.”

“But your suit-”

“I'm sure I'll be able to put together something suitable. Goodbye, Mum.”

*click*


	2. Viviane and Marcella: First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes meets her Watson, or, the advantages of public transportation.

Viviane bought all her groceries at the Bellehaven Real Food Co-Op. She found the name a bit silly – what else would they sell, computerized simulations of food? Holograms? Wax fruit? - and it was nearly a mile further from Thornfield Towers than the nearest supermarket, but it had its advantages. It was smaller, and the lighting wasn't as bright, and it normally wasn't intolerably crowded if one stayed away from the bakery/cafe and the deli section. And if the food was a little more expensive than the student staples would have been at the supermarket, at least it was all ostensibly-healthful.  
  
Even under congenial circumstances, Viviane didn't particularly enjoy shopping, but compared to spending a long exhausting day dealing with _other people_ and sundry unpleasant stimuli and then having to choose between legging it to a crowded student dining hall and having breath mints and tea for dinner again, grocery shopping was a day at the library. Unless she were feeling particularly resilient or the listing for the _specialite de la maison_ looked uncommonly tempting, Viviane normally took a light dinner in her rooms and then, on particularly long and strenuous nights, went to the dining hall around nine o'clock to take advantage of the late night sandwich bar under less crowded conditions. Viviane's mini-fridge was full of experiments in progress and she didn't have reliable access to a working stove, so she restricted her culinary repertoire to things that could be made with a microwave and electric kettle, and ingredients that didn't have to be refrigerated before opening. Viviane had also experimented with the breath mints and tea approach, but had found that while it worked in the short term, it was not the sort of regimen designed to support prolonged spells of feverish intellectual activity.  
  
Despite her general dislike of errands, Viviane was forced to admit that her shopping trip could have been far more unpleasant. She hadn't had to share a seat on the bus and her fellow passengers had been civil without veering into undue familiarity, the store hadn't been inconveniently crowded, everything she'd wanted to buy had been in its accustomed location, and the produce section had been offering free samples of local organic cider. And, not the least important for someone without a car, the weather was cooperating. In fact, Viviane had to squint a little as she left the relatively dim confines of the co-op for the bright Indian Summer day outside. There was a hint of chill in the air, but as a card-carrying member of the Long Swishy Coats Go With Everything club, Viviane didn't mind it. Fashion aside, a still, humid day would have been terribly incongruous with the local scenery. Bellehaven's vine maples in their fall glory demanded crystalline blue skies and brisk autumn breezes. Viviane absently wished she had leaves to scuff through as she shouldered her tote bag full of groceries and walked uphill to the bus stop.  
  
A few minutes later, a young woman about Viviane's age jogged up to the bus stop from the direction of the co-op. She had a _cafe au lait_ complexion and curly, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and she was carrying an empty backpack, a large silk-embroidered felt shoulder bag, and two laden canvas tote bags. "Hey, um, excuse me," she said, as she caught her breath, "Could you tell me how long you've been waiting here?"  
  
Viviane checked her watch. "Certainly. Four minutes."  
  
"Okay, so the 221 shouldn't have come yet. Sometimes it's early, but it's never _that_ early. Thanks!" the young woman said, as she flashed a cheerful - if rather sharp-toothed - smile. She set her backpack and bags of groceries down on the bus stop's bench and began arranging the food and assorted household necessities in her backpack. If she noticed Viviane watching, she didn't seem to mind. "Oh, and I'm Marcella, by the way."  
  
"You're a long way from home, Marcella," Viviane said.  
  
"Now, what would make you think that?" Marcella asked, with what Viviane dearly hoped was amusement. "Was it my accent?"  
  
"Tote bags, actually," Viviane said. "Tacoma Farmers' Market and Pierce County Library."  
  
"Right." Marcella smiled and shook her head. "How absurdly simple."  
  
"You're not in desperate financial straits," Viviane continued, "You can afford organic fruit and fancy ecological dish soap, and your backpack was quite high end when it was new, but you've learned to be frugal. You use souvenir tote bags for your groceries, you've mended the strap on your purse, replaced the laces on your sneakers - which have been through at least one rainy season - sewn back two buttons on your cardigan and replaced the top button entirely. However, your socks and the scarf are new."  
  
"Right on all counts."  
  
"You're interested in fiber arts - knitting, if I'm not mistaken about the origin of your scarf - which you may have learned from the relative who made you that sweater. And you're currently working on a project involving glossy forest green eyelash yarn." At the sight of Marcella's puzzled expression, Viviane explained, "Bits of fuzz stuck to your sweater."  
  
"You do a lot of walking, and you hike when you get the chance," Viviane continued. "You wouldn't buy a backpack of this caliber for hauling groceries and textbooks, and I believe... yes, it's rested against an uncommonly sappy evergreen. Fairly recently, and more than once. _You wouldn't buy..._ " she muttered to herself. "The backpack was a gift. It's not something someone in her late teens with a modest income would buy for herself... there are cheaper models out there with the same purpose."  
  
"You're right about that, it was a high school graduation present," Marcella said. "But I learned how to knit out of a book. Although Aunt Sophia did have to demonstrate purling to me when I couldn't decipher the diagram, so that'd be - half a point?"  
  
"Keep score in whatever fashion pleases you," Viviane said. She gave Marcella a long, searching look. "Hmm... From the way you move, and your overall pattern of muscular development, running errands on foot and the occasional hike in the woods clearly aren't your only forms of exercise. Equally clearly, you are not a competitive sprinter."  
  
"Hey! I'd like to see _you_ run uphill with two bags of groceries."  
  
"I was referring to the state of your shoes and your calf muscles. And you're a bit stocky for a serious marathoner, not to mention the potential complication of your old knee injury. Tell me, was it sports, a car accident, or something more exotic?"  
  
"Rugby, actually."  
  
"But you don't play it now?"  
  
"Not since high school."  
  
"That makes more sense. I was certain you hadn't rolled around on any grass lately. But you don't just work out, either." Viviane narrowed her eyes and looked down at Marcella through her long, silvery lashes. "Indoor sport. From your ankles and leg muscles - not a ballerina. From the state of your hair - not a swimmer. Lack of characteristic calluses on your hands suggests that, while you have therianthropic heritage, you don't spend much time as a quadruped yourself, not that that's relevant to the situation at hand.” Viviane briefly wondered if she should have phrased her last observation a bit more delicately. Viviane thought that the idea that one should treat another person's identity as a piece of bad news to be broken to them gently was a bit insulting, but other people could be oddly sensitive about the strangest things. Marcella wasn't turning away, crying, glaring, turning pale or red, or attempting to punch Viviane in the face, so it was probably all right.  
  
“Pattern of repeated impacts with firm but not dangerously unyielding surfaces, possibly mats or other human beings, with no real injury resulting,” Viviane continued. “Pattern inconsistent with either repeated accidents or serious violence. All other evidence suggests that you are _not_ clumsy, and if the marks were acquired in an abusive relationship or other situation with strong negative emotional associations, you'd be making more of an effort to cover them up. Sparring is the most logical explanation. Ergo: martial artist. Some of these are clearly from hitting the ground, not being hit by another person, you don't have the characteristic specialized musculature of someone who focuses on punches or kicks, and the state of your knuckles indicates that you don't make a habit of punching people. So, more a grappler than a striker."  
  
"I've been studying judo half my life," Marcella replied.  
  
"Splendid!"  
  
"So, with your current data, could you guess my major?"  
  
Viviane sighed. "Not at the moment, no. I can tell that this is at least your third year at Northwestern Polygnostic - you're carrying year before last's reusable portable tea mug - and that you had at least two classes this morning. One of them was a lecture - you took rather copious notes, in pencil - and the other was pottery. But you didn't throw any pots, you spent your time trimming and glazing. There's clay dust and a few dribbles of glaze on your shoes, but no trace of slip. As for your major - all I can say with anything close to certainty is that it's not computer technology or one of the hard sciences."  
  
"I just don't seem like the type?"  
  
"No. The Physics and Computer Tech buildings are both situated on unusual patches of dirt compared to the rest of campus. The soil there has a rather distinctive color and a much higher clay content. I'd notice it on your shoes. I spend a great deal of time pursuing independent research in the chemistry and biology labs and the geology building. If you also spent much time there, we'd have encountered each other before this. And, geologic evidence aside, why would a computer engineer take all her notes in pencil?"  
  
"Overstrained her typing muscles?" Marcella suggested. "Oh, hey, here it comes. You want to keep this up on the bus and amaze and disturb our fellow passengers?"  
  
"I am amenable to continuing if you are."  
  
"So, oh wise and not-quite-omniscient oracle," Marcella said, "tell me about my living arrangements."  
  
"You live with someone. You're on civil enough terms to do small favors for each other, but not notably close. One of you has a wheat or gluten intolerance - most likely your housemate. Neither of you smoke. You live off campus and don't keep a car in Bellehaven. You don't live with a cat at present, but you did at some point in the past - and likely a cat of uncertain temper."  
  
"How on earth?" Marcella asked as the bus pulled up.  
  
"Simple," Viviane said as she boarded. The front half of the bus was occupied, so Viviane headed for the far back, which had enough free space for Viviane and Marcella to sit together with a decent amount of elbow room. As both women took their seats and set down their shopping, she continued, "You bought a bag of regular spinach-cheese tortellini, some pita chips, and a loaf of garlic sourdough. However, you also bought a bag of gluten-free rice pasta. That suggests a second consumer in this scenario. You're willing to pick up a few things for them when you're in the area, but you don't share meals."  
  
"And as for the cat?" Marcella asked.  
  
"Bite and claw marks on your hands and forearms, but all well-healed, and no cat fur on your sweater."  
  
"The freshest bite marks are actually from my aunt's cats," Marcella said. "I house-sat for her this summer. My extended family contains many cat lovers, God help us. Which is actually rather funny, considering."  
  
Viviane stared intently at the floor for a few moments with her hands clasped and resting on her knees. She took a few deep breaths, and continued, "You live somewhere along the half-mile between the bottom of Arkham Hill and McMurdo Creek."  
  
"Yes...? How-"  
  
"Simple process of elimination and a basic knowledge of local geology. You live somewhere along Route 221, between here and the Northwest Bellehaven Transit Center - and not on campus. It last rained four days ago, and yet the state of your shoes indicates recent contact with a peculiarly silty mud puddle. The little valley north of Arkham is one of the soggiest residential areas in the city - serves the developers right for trying to pave a marsh - and that is riverside dirt, but 221 doesn't get close to the Memaloostaguamish itself."  
  
"Wow, I- that's..." Marcella smiled in an odd sort of way and shrugged as if at a loss for words, "amazing."  
  
Viviane preened a little in spite of herself. "Really? Some people find it inexplicably disturbing."  
  
"No, it's cool. I didn't know anyone could make the Sherlock Holmes schtick work in real life. How do you know so much about dirt, anyway? Are you a geology major?"  
  
"No, organic chemistry. But I like to have a basic practical knowledge of local geography. Helps me avoid getting lost."  
  
"You know, most people just use street signs," Marcella said, but she didn't sound put off. There was a moment's companionable silence, and then Viviane realized that she'd been monopolizing the conversation since Marcella had introduced herself. Marcella didn't seem to mind, thank heavens, but conventional etiquette dictated a certain reciprocity in these situations.  
  
"So," Viviane said, "Would you like to make an attempt?"  
  
"An attempt at... oh, right. Well, I have just enough knowledge of geology to tell basalt from beryl." She leaned in Viviane's direction and stage-whispered, " _Basalt's not green_ ,", then continued in her normal voice, "So this is likely to be brief and unimpressive, but sure. I'll give it a shot." She squinted a bit, tilted her head, gave Viviane a lingering, head-to-toe look, and took a deep breath.  
  
"Okay, um, you're a natural blonde with decent dental hygiene. Your clothes are high quality and in good condition, but not new, and nothing overtly trendy. You probably buy what you like rather than following fashion, and wear it to death. You have some money to sink into things. The coat alone had to be a substantial investment - even thrift shops don't give away something like that. However, your shirt probably really is from a thrift store. Nobody'd pay the retail cost of a real silk shirt if the sleeves were an inch too short. So, um, you come from money but you don't like to impose on them?"  
  
"You could put it that way,” Viviane said coolly. _And let's leave it at that_ , she thought. There was no point in marring a pleasant afternoon.  
  
"You probably don't have a car. I saw you use a bus pass when we got on. You do a decent amount of walking, from the condition your boots are in - and you walked through some recently mowed wet grass earlier today - but you don't get much outdoor exercise otherwise. No residual summer tan. Oh, and you're a tea drinker who doesn't cook from scratch much," Marcella added, gesturing towards Viviane's modest bag of groceries.  
  
"Fair enough. Anything else?" Viviane asked.  
  
"You don't smoke, or live with anyone who does, but you were in close proximity to some smokers earlier today. A bit of the smell sunk into your coat. And you wash with peppermint soap - Dr. Bronner's or something similar. And - um, this is a bit of a wild guess, but - do you play a string instrument?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, you see, your fingernails are very short, but you don't bite them, and you have long skinny Paganini fingers, and to put it bluntly, manual labor doesn't seem to be your thing. At all. So - maybe you play an instrument where long nails would get in the way?"  
  
"That's... a bit of an intuitive leap for my tastes, but not inaccurate," Viviane said.  
  
"Well, that's a relief," Marcella said dryly. "What do you play?"  
  
"Classical guitar, mostly. A bit of cello. You see-" Viviane held out her hands - "The patterns of calluses on my left and right hands are different, and the nails on my right hand aren't as short, because I use them for picking."  
  
"Oh, right," Marcella said. "Not really my area, I'm afraid, I can't play anything but piano."  
  
Viviane sighed gustily and facepalmed. "Piano. How could I have missed that? Instruments are easy!"  
  
"Um, if it's any consolation, my current apartment doesn't have one and I haven't had a chance to practice since I came back to Bellehaven. Oh, and do you have a name, by the way, or should I call you Sherlockina or something?"  
  
Viviane wrinkled her nose. "Viviane will do."  
  
"Like the Lady of the Lake?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So, um, Viviane, I just thought that, since we already know so much about each other, it would, you know, be kind of a shame if we got off this bus and disappeared into the void from whence we came and never saw each other again. Would you like to hang out some time? The public library does free chamber music nights in one of the meeting rooms if that's something you're interested in, although if you _are_ interested, you probably already knew this-"  
  
"Actually, I didn't. I don't really go out. I'm always busy with my studies and my research projects."  
  
 _"Oh."_  
  
"But that doesn't mean I don't want to!" Viviane said hurriedly. "I do. Very much."  
  
"Wonderful," Marcella said, apparently with all sincerity. "So, we'd better exchange contact information, because I don't know about you, but my psychic communication skills are a bit rusty."  
  
Viviane rolled her eyes. "And I fear mine are no better."  
  
Marcella smiled, and excavated a small notebook and mechanical pencil out of the depths of her purse. She wrote a few lines, ripped out the page, and handed the paper to Viviane. "You need paper or anything?" she asked.  
  
"No, thank you," Viviane said. She fished a pen and receipt out of the pocket of her coat and repeated Marcella's actions.  
  
"Okay," Marcella said, "Just to make sure we can read each other's handwriting, your email _is_ whack_a_6022?"  
  
"You may be overly cautious, but yes, that's right. And you're lapucelle1983?"  
  
"Right. And this wouldn't seem paranoid if you had a friend who wrote ones and zeroes just like lowercase ls and os, and who had a fondness for leetspeak."  
  
"Ah, I see."  
  
"Oh, and, by the way, Viviane, where's your stop?"  
  
"Oh, that was three blocks ago," Viviane said calmly.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"I didn't want to cut our conversation off in the middle," Viviane said. "Besides, walking an extra fraction of a mile in mild weather is no hardship. I would, however, prefer to exit before we hit the next hill."  
  
"Sounds reasonable."  
  
Viviane stuffed the slip of paper with Marcella's contact information into her coat pocket and rang the bell. As soon as she noticed the next bus stop on the horizon, she gathered up her groceries. "Goodbye, Marcella," she said, "Believe me, it has been a _great_ pleasure to meet you."  
  
"Me too. See you later."  
  
"Not too much later, I hope."  
  
"I'm looking forward to it," Marcella said. She added, just as Viviane was leaving the bus, "By the way, I'm a psychology major."


	3. Viviane and Marcella: Totally Not A Date, Part One

To: [whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net](mailto:whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net)

From: [lapucelle1983@hotmail.com](mailto:lapucelle1983@hotmail.com)

Subject: Chamber Music Night?

 

Dear Viviane,

 

First, I hope I'm spelling your name right. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. Also, if you're still interested in going to a concert together sometime, Bellehaven Public Library is doing one of their free chamber music nights this Friday. It's going to be Schubert Night: they're doing the Trout Quintet, the Death and the Maiden Quartet, and a few new art songs by “local contemporary composers” (read: NPU music theory and composition majors) to fill out the program. Not exactly envelope-pushing, I'll admit, but the musicianship is generally pretty good. I think if the library wanted to get anyone besides the performers' parents, the performers' significant others, and a handful of homeless people trying to get out of the rain to sit still for Pierrot Lunaire, they'd have to provide rather a lot of after-concert refreshments, and that's just one more thing to clean up.

 

Concert's at 7, and they generally end between 9 and 9:30, so even allowing for a bit of delay, the buses in that part of town will still be running. Also, if you're not too busy that afternoon and evening, are you interested in meeting a bit earlier? I know a place within walking distance of the library that does great gelato, and they have sugar-free and dairy-free options if that's an issue.

 

I'm looking forward to hearing from you.

 

-Marcella

 

 

To: [lapucelle1983@hotmail.com](mailto:lapucelle1983@hotmail.com)

From: [whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net](mailto:whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net)

Subject: Re:Chamber Music Night?

 

Marcella,

 

Viviane is correct. As you put it when we met, “like the Lady of the Lake,” although I realize this is not particularly informative when one considers that wide range of fanciful alternate spellings in Arthurian works.

I would be more than happy to join you for an evening of gelato, Schubert, and modern amateur lieder. I have few non-scholastic obligations, and few of my personal research projects operate on any kind of strict time frame. Where and when would you like to meet? Do you know how large an audience there is likely to be?

 

I remain,

yours, etc.

Viviane

 

 

To: [whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net](mailto:whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net)

From: [lapucelle1983@hotmail.com](mailto:lapucelle1983@hotmail.com)

Subject: Re:Re:Chamber Music Night?

 

Viviane,

Wonderful! How about we aim for 5:30 at Paradiso Bakery and Gelateria? That should give us plenty of time even if they're busier than usual, there are traffic problems, the buses are running late, et cetera. If we finish early we can go for a walk or something. It's a pretty part of town.

(By the way, if you've never been there: Paradiso's about three blocks down from the library, on the left-hand side of Adair Street if you're facing the water. Route 108 gets you the closest.)

Audiences are generally around 20-30 people, which in a venue that size is plenty of breathing room. There was more than that for Eine kleine nachtmusik, but that's something everyone's heard of.

 

-Marcella

 

 

To: [lapucelle1983@hotmail.com](mailto:lapucelle1983@hotmail.com)

From: [whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net](mailto:whack_a_6022@lovelacescape.net)

Subject: Re:Re:Re:Chamber Music Night?

 

Fair enough. I will see you Friday.

 

V.M.

 

 

~*~*~

 

_It's on!_ Marcella thought, after she received Viviane's reply to her first email. _She's actually interested! She **is** interested, right? She must be. If she really didn't want to go, she could have always made up an excuse or pretended her inbox ate my email. No, at this point I believe that it's safe to assume that either she wants more of my company, or at least that she's willing to put up with me for the sake of Schubert and frozen desserts._

 

_So,_ Marcella thought, “ _is this a date? A friend-date? Are we even properly friends yet? We barely know each other. We've had **one** conversation. Maybe she knows all about me with her magic Sherlock Holmes powers, but all I know about her, really, is that she doesn't drive or cook from scratch much, she plays the cello and acoustic guitar, she's interested in geology but not majoring in it, and she has an impeccable fashion sense. How do I know we're even going to like each other much after spending hours in each others' company? Oh, please God, I hope we do._ Marcella could not, personally, picture herself getting bored with Viviane's company, but some superstitious corner of her mind insisted on reviewing the negative possibilities.

 

_Okay,_ she thought, _Occam's Razor seems applicable here. Assume that she wants to see me again, no obscure ulterior motives. Now, what am I going to wear?_ Plenty of people wore street clothes to the library concerts, and sometimes Marcella did as well, but it could be fun to dress up on occasion. Also, if the outfit she'd worn grocery shopping was any indication, Viviane's own sense of style was fairly formal. It wouldn't do to look too sloppy.

 

The second question: butch up or femme up? Marcella briefly wondered if anyone but queer girls ever considered this issue. Since Marcella had no idea what kind of aesthetic Viviane appreciated in other people, she let herself be swayed by practical considerations. _The weather's been mild lately, but this close to the waterfront it always gets chilly in the evenings. We'll be doing a lot of walking, most of it up or down hills. So, trousers and boots, not a pencil skirt and heels. And we'll be in and out of doors. Wear layers._ Marcella decided on her best black jeans, flight jacket, motorcycle boots, a lightweight angora-blend turtleneck, and her off-white bamboo cloth fringed scarf to set the whole ensemble off. Amelia Earhart meets Joan Jett.

 

 

_~*~*~_

 

_Well, this is... somewhat unexpected,_ Viviane thought, when she received Marcella's email. _She really meant it. I didn't scare her off by, well, being me._ Viviane hadn't believed that Marcella had been _lying_ about wanting to continue their acquaintance, but she hadn't been holding her breath waiting for Marcella to make any further overtures. People so seldom said exactly what they meant, in Viviane's experience, and it wasn't always easy to tell whether the behavior of others was motivated by their own desires or the demands of social convention. It was also something of a novelty for anyone to like Viviane enough to do anything about it. However, everything Viviane knew about etiquette indicated that Marcella's behavior went well beyond the demands of basic graciousness. _She made the first move, not me,_ Viviane thought. _It's not as if I put her on the spot and she couldn't think of a graceful way to refuse._

 

Pleasing as this was, the prospect of three and a half to four hours in the company of _other people_ , _in public_ was a bit daunting. She played through the prospective evening in her mind. _Gelato: I've never had it, but I do enjoy most frozen desserts. One doesn't have to keep up a constant stream of small talk when one is eating. If the shop isn't too noisy or crowded, this part should be fairly undemanding. If it is unduly noisy, I can always steer us down toward the waterfront on our walk. That's normally quiet in the evenings, and the lights on the water are rather pretty. Has Marcella seen them yet? She has an intrepid nature, by all indications, but most young women don't go for long walks after dark without a specific destination in mind._ Viviane's mind briefly flitted through the various dire warnings she'd been given regarding socializing with near-strangers, and brushed them aside. _An apartment-dwelling young woman with a roommate and no car has a vanishingly small chance of turning out to be a serial killer or kidnapper_ , she reflected, amused. _If nothing else, where would she put her victims? You'd think even an exceptionally tolerant roommate would draw the line at dead bodies or trussed-up hostages littering the place._ Viviane giggled a little at the mental image of Marcella's attempt to play innocent as her nameless, faceless, gluten-intolerant roommate berated her for hiding a corpse behind the living-room sofa.

 

The concert itself didn't pose too many potential problems. All one had to do was sit, listen, and appreciate or make snarky internal commentary in one's head, depending on the quality of the performance. Viviane's only worry was the potential size and density of the crowd. Marcella had claimed that there was usually “plenty of breathing room,” but Viviane had no idea if this Friday would be one of the exceptions, or what Marcella's standards of adequacy were in this context. Marcella was a rather smaller person than Viviane was, and by all indications rather more at ease around other life forms. Well, there was nothing for it. Viviane had managed to keep herself together in packed lecture halls, and even the full turnout of the Bellehaven Schubert Appreciation Society couldn't be worse than that.

 

All that remained was to plot out the route to Paradiso, decide what to wear, and make a list of a few potential conversational topics. Viviane was normally confident in her ability to think on her feet, but sustained polite conversation is not the sort of thing one wants to walk into completely unprepared.


	4. Viviane and Marcella: Totally Not a Date, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viviane and Marcella meet for gelato and talk.

 

Viviane wasn't on my bus. She was probably taking the route going the other direction, but I didn't see her get off on that stop, either, and I had a good view of it from the tables in front of Paradiso. This was slightly surprising, but not really worrisome at that point. The 108 ran quite frequently, and even if she had been late getting out the door and had to take the next bus down, we should have had plenty of time. Or maybe she'd had some other business in this part of town and she'd have walked over as soon as she finished.

 

This seemed to be the most plausible explanation, because I soon noticed Viviane moving into view from around a corner and walking briskly toward Paradiso. She wasn't holding any shopping or other unusual baggage. I wondered what had been keeping her. I waved, but she didn't acknowledge me until she was practically at the door of the place. Maybe she'd been too wrapped up in not getting lost.

 

Viviane had also dressed up that night, and she looked eccentrically gorgeous. She had on the same coat she was wearing when we met, the same boots, black tailored trousers instead of jeans, a white semi-blousey long-sleeved shirt with cute faux-antique metal cuff buttons, a midnight blue heavy silk scarf, and a dark green brocade vest that looked like something an eccentric Victorian poet might have worn. She smelled of peppermint soap and oolong tea, with a faint whiff of incongruous artificial citrus musk that suggested she'd recently been in forced proximity to a guy who overdid the body spray. All the dark, cool colors emphasized the natural pallor of her hair, eyes, and complexion in a way that wasn't necessarily healthy-looking but was certainly striking. Combined with her sharp facial structure and slightly retro outfit, she looked a bit like a Scandinavian vampire.

 

“Hello,” Viviane said. “I see the mud puddles have finally dried up.”

 

“Hello. Oh, right, they have. How was your week?”

 

“Tolerable,” Viviane said coolly. “To be perfectly frank, meeting you was the highlight. The only incident of remotely comparable interest was a bit of routine forensic chemistry one of the young ladies in my building wanted me to run for her.”

 

“That sounds interesting,” I said.

 

“Not particularly. It was fairly simple work, and the circumstances were rather pedestrian. The girl in question had experienced some unexpected reactions at a party the night before, and wanted to know if her drink had been drugged. Nothing else untoward had happened to her that night, her symptoms had been inconclusive, and there were many possible suspects, so she deemed a private investigation preferable to the inevitable awkwardness of official involvement at this stage. My analysis of her unwashed glasses did not reveal she'd been consuming anything more dubious than Jager and cheap tequila-”

 

“Not together?!” I said, aghast.

 

“No.”

 

“Thank heavens for small mercies. Oh, sorry for the interruption. Go on.”

 

“But she was adamant that she hadn't been drinking any more than she had on other occasions, and she claimed to have a reasonable understanding of her own alcohol tolerance. Upon further investigation, however, the most likely culprit was the combination of alcohol and her new allergy medication.”

 

“Right. Synergy. Well, I'm glad it turned out all right. So, where did you learn to analyze cocktail dregs for traces of sedatives? Do you finally get something useful in the higher-level chemistry courses?” I asked.

 

“Actually, I taught myself. Not all from first principles, of course, but I've been playing with chemistry sets since I was a pre-teen, and my dad kept a lot of his old college science textbooks. We'd conduct experiments together sometimes.”

 

“Yeah, my siblings and I would do experiments, too. We never had a proper chemistry set, so mostly we just mixed together things we found around the house to see if they'd fizz or change color. I did have a little book of kid's science experiments, and sometimes we did things out of that, but mostly we were pretty free-form. God, I'm amazed we didn't wind up gassing the whole house with bleach and ammonia.” I smiled a little and shook my head at the memory. “But none of it taught me very much useful, although I did accidentally invent an interesting variation of Silly Putty at one point. Your approach must have been rather more methodical.”

 

“Not necessarily,” Viviane said. “I have had plenty of almost-gassing-myself moments in my more experimental moods. But chemistry has been one of the passions of my life for over a decade. I'd have no excuse if I weren't adequately good at it by now.”

 

“Sounds like you're more than 'adequately good,'” I said.

 

“That is accurate.” Was I imagining things, or was Viviane preening, just the slightest bit? “So,” she said briskly, with no preamble, “Why psychology?”

 

“Actually, that's kind of a long story,” I said. “I'd be more than happy to tell you about it, but would you like to get our gelato first? I can explain while we're eating, if I'm not too long-winded about it.”

 

“Fair enough,” she said. “Lead on.”

 

We ducked in through a side door that lead straight to the gelateria section of the establishment. “Have you ever had anything like this before?” I asked. “It's pretty hard to go wrong – all the flavors are at least reasonably tasty, and they do offer samples. I'll just say that all the chocolate flavors are really good, but the _cioccolato fondente_ is _very_ dark. I normally pair it with something creamy and get the regular chocolateif I want to complement something more assertive like raspberry or mocha or lemon – which sounds kind of counter-intuitive but is really good, by the way – but some people like to see two badass flavors battling it out. _De gustibus non est disputandum._ Standard order is two flavors at once, but you can get more if you feel like splurging.”

 

Viviane, it turned out, put more deliberation into choosing ice cream flavors than has gone into the beatification of some minor saints. I can't say I was surprised, from the little I already knew of her character. I was well-enough acquainted with Paradiso's offerings that I didn't have to sample everything, but with Viviane assimilating all the new data, there was no need to rush. I privately resolved to leave a little extra in the tip jar. Fortunately, the place wasn't crowded.

 

Viviane eventually decided on _stracciatella_ – vanilla with chocolate flakes - and mandarin _sorbetto._ I ordered _zuppa inglese_ -trifle - and mixed berry _._ I had no idea how blackberries and spiced liqueur-flavored custard would go together, but berries and cake are a classic combination, and I believe that trifle traditionally contains fruit.

 

There was a spot of awkwardness when it came time to pay for our treats. Viviane assumed that we'd each be paying for our own, but I'd planned on paying because I was the one who'd suggested the activity and made the invitations. “Marcella, I don't think so highly of my own attractions that I expect people to go broke for the sake of the pleasure of my company,” she said. “I was planning on spending the money from this week's inquiry on something frivolous, anyway. If your sense of chivalry is that outraged, feel free to help me across all the mud puddles you like and pay for our concert tickets.” Fortunately, I was in too good a mood to be insulted by Viviane's apparent belief in my poverty. She could buy her own damn ice cream if she wanted.

 

Beatrice (pronounced with four syllables like Dante's girlfriend, not three like the _Much Ado About Nothing_ character), the long-suffering employee who'd served us our gelato, suddenly brightened. “A concert? Where are you going? Is this your first date?”

 

“We're going to the Schubert concert at the library,” Viviane replied, as I was scrambling trying to figure out just what to call this particular platonic two-person excursion.

 

“Schubert's all right, I guess,” Beatrice said, then she turned to address me. “But what you should really do, if you want to do this properly, is save up and take her to the opera. Nothing's more romantic than a good production of _La Boheme._ ”

 

“Er, actually, it's not like that,” I said. “We barely know each other!”

 

“Right.” Beatrice had the temerity to _wink_ at us. “I understand. Bicé won't breath a word about you two to a living soul.” It was almost enough to make me reconsider my earlier resolution re: tipping. I paid for my gelato and headed back outside. It was getting towards dusk, but the lighting was decent, and I wasn't really keen on being within Beatrice's direct line of sight at the moment. Viviane paid for hers and followed me. I picked out a different table this time – it didn't have as good a view from the street, but the light was better, and it was out of the wind.

 

We sat down and I spent a few quiet moments contemplating the wonders of Italian frozen desserts, but the peace did not last long. Viviane, I noticed, was drumming her spoon against the rim of her bowl to the rhythm of _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_ and glaring at her gelato with more intensity than even the highest quality of ice cream really deserved. I hoped she hadn't found anything in it. “Again,” Viviane said, without the grace to even cough significantly beforehand, “why psychology?”

 

“Well, I'm specializing in child development,” I said. “I want to be a pediatric occupational therapist, although you really need a Master's Degree to do that.”

 

“Why that?” Viviane asked, a bit tensely.

 

“I like children, and I tend to get along well with them, and I believe I'd enjoy working with them. And occupational therapy sounds like an interesting job, and it's very hands-on, which is a point in its favor as far as I'm concerned,” I said. I took a deep breath and continued, “I'm not much of a theoretician, really, but I'm pretty good at learning how to do things. And it's something that's directly useful. If I'm doing my job right, I'll be helping people improve their lives in tangible ways, which I think would be more satisfying than sitting at a desk all day moving imaginary money around. I have some other plans in this direction, but they're not exactly practical.”

 

“Do tell.” Viviane's previous tension had abated a bit, for which I was most grateful.

 

“Okay, so you've probably deduced this already, but I'm half werewolf. Lots of lycanthropes on my dad's side of the family. So I started looking through the professional literature on were-kids, and, well, it's an embarrassment to my field. I know we're a minority, but we're not that obscure! There's ridiculously little material out there, and from my perspective, the priorities are kind of skewed.”

 

“Really, Marcella? Ostensibly factual literature about a minority community that says more about the preconceptions of the mainstream than said minority's lived experience? How very unusual,” Viviane deadpanned.

 

“You're right, it's terribly unprecedented,” I replied. “But really – three pages on strategies for how to keep kids from chewing on the furniture, and not a mention of potential ultrasonic distractions in the classroom? I can sort of understand fussing so much about chewing since the text in question was written in 1980, before they knew as much about how the retroviral forms spread as we know now, and it was accepted procedure to treat infected-therianthrope spit like nuclear waste. Nowadays people are more relaxed if there aren't folks with compromised immune systems around. But hardly anyone deals with the sensory aspects of the lycanthropic experience at all. It's kind of a big deal! And yet nobody talks much about it. Of course, it would be horribly uncharitable and a bit paranoid to assume that the issue is ignored because it's not as dramatic as shifting and poses no real or imagined threat to standard-issue morphically stable humanity. It probably just hasn't been brought to the big names' attention.” I paused, and took a few bites of my gelato. “Sorry I got ranty for a bit. I'm a bit invested in the subject.”

 

“This is nothing to be sorry for,” Viviane said. “In my experience the people who really need to apologize for ranting are the ones who act like their every half-considered opinion is a prophetic utterance. There is nothing shameful about passion for an obscure subject.”

 

“You have a point.”

 

“Of course I do,” Viviane said. “I don't talk because I'm in love with the sound of my own voice or have a compulsion to fill dead air. So. You state, and I have no reason to doubt you, that there is not much useful information about therianthropic children available to people in the well-intentioned busybody professions. Where do your ostensibly impractical plans come into this?” Viviane paused, steepled her fingers, and looked down at her gelato with a faintly sinister air, before snatching up a bit of chocolate from the _stracciatella_ with her spoon and crunching it triumphantly. “I suppose smacking some sense into all the leading lights of your field would be impractical for reasons of travel time if nothing else, unless you could manage to do it at a professional conference.”

 

I chuckled a little at that and shook my head. “No, that's not it. I'm saving that for when I've actually been doing the job for a few years and have had time to get jaded. What I want to do, is, well – I'd like to specialize in working with kids from the “genetically diverse,” or “morphically variant,” or whatever you want to call it, communities. Mutants and 'thropes, basically. It's not a demographic that's going to get smaller. It seems like every year since the turn of the millennium, the estimation of the percentage of mutants in the general population goes up, and I think think the therianthrope population has actually had an upswing since the first contagion-suppressors were introduced back in the eighties, although that might be due to other factors. Demographics aren't really my area. But anyway, here are some reasonably numerous, diverse populations that may well have unique needs, but the mainstream doesn't know squat about what these needs might be, let alone what to do about them. This is where I come in – well, theoretically. I mean, ignoring the fact that I'm really the last person who's in any position to do the whole groundbreaking visionary thing-”

 

“Why not?” Viviane asked. “You're reasonably articulate and do not seem plagued by any social phobias. It can't be a matter of qualifications, since anyone else outside the actual mutant and therianthrope communities would be at least as out of their depth as you. Possibly more so.”

 

“I believe I could do the research and the work,” I said. “I have some previous first and second-hand experience living with lycanthropy, which should be of some use. I can't claim any magical insight into mutant-dom, but Washington State is the center of the North American genodiversity movement. Resources shouldn't be that hard to find. My real problem is the whole 'getting people to listen to all my weird new ideas because I'm just that awesome' business. I'm not very good at getting anything done through sheer awesomeness or raw personal charisma. On a good day I can manage mundane competence.”

 

“A virtue which is severely undervalued in our current extroverted culture. Marcella, you do realize that there is a difference between being able to do something worthwhile and getting public credit for it. Look at Tesla! If you believe that your proposed course of action would advance the frontiers of knowledge and promote the well-being of humanity, do it. The worst that could happen is that someone with better networking skills and less work ethic could make a fortune ripping off your ideas.”

 

I just blinked and processed what she'd just said for a few moments. “Wow, I... never thought of it that way before. I'd been more worried about being ignored altogether. I suppose going down in history as occupational therapy's Nikola Tesla wouldn't be too bad. I'd need to cultivate a more interesting set of personal eccentricities if I wanted to go that route.” Even in the early evening chill, my gelato had softened considerably, and I applied myself to finishing the _zuppa inglese_ before it turned into literal soup. I didn't want a bowlful of disintegrated sludge from the sponge cake bits. Viviane seemed to take this as a signal that the conversation was on pause for a bit, and returned her attention to her own dessert. I checked my watch. Still plenty of time. 

 

It was close to dusk, and in the slanted late sunlight, the mundane objects around me glowed with a kind of hyper-reality they never had at midday. Something about the angle of the light took Viviane's bone structure from merely pointy to strikingly sculpted. Fortunately, Viviane was not one for eye contact and didn't seem to notice my scrutiny. The silence hadn't quite reached the awkward point yet, but I felt like I ought to put the conversational ball in Viviane's court, as it were, after dumping all my self-esteem issues on her. “So, Viviane,” I said, “What do you have going on in your life besides studying and amateur forensic science? Okay, I suppose if you get paid it's not technically amateur. Sorry. Are you seeing anybody?”

 

“Dating's not really my area.”

 

“Evidence suggests it may not be mine, either, and yet I keep trying. Like the old psych major joke about the difference between rats and humans...”

 

“Which is?” Viviane asked.

 

“Experiments have shown that rats are capable of learning from experience. So, we're both carefree bachelorettes. Awesome. So, what else do you do with your time?” I asked.

 

“Independent research, scientific and otherwise. I do a lot of walking in mild weather. I like to know the lay of the land, and I find it relaxing. Martial arts. Music. Mostly solitary efforts: I was in a string quartet last year, but the first violinist graduated and the group fell apart from artistic and temperamental clashes within the month. I haven't joined an ensemble since. Sometimes I go to plays or concerts or museum exhibits. I attended one party in my freshman year. It was more than enough.”

 

“College parties aren't exactly the Symposium, are they?” I replied. “Unless the ancient Athenians played wine pong. Actually, the best parties I've attended were thrown by nerds. Although in hindsight the Strip _Tomb of Horrors_ could have become _very_ awkward if we hadn't all gotten sick of it and decided to make popcorn and have an Ed Wood marathon.” As if at a signal, the wind picked up and sent a blast of cold air and fallen leaves through the little courtyard. 

 

“Do I even want to know what 'Strip _Tomb of Horrors'_ is?” Viviane asked.

 

“It's not that traumatic if you aren't phased by extreme nerdiness, but there is a bit of backstory involved. You've heard of _Dungeons and Dragons_ , right?”

 

“Yes. I never played, but a few of my more tolerable acquaintances in high school did.”

 

“Well, _Tomb of Horrors_ is a module – that's a predesigned adventure published by a game company – that's notoriously lethal,” I explained. “The party had been going on for an hour or two by this point, we'd all had lots of caffeine and sugar, and most of us'd had a little bit of alcohol. Big board games are kind of traditional at gamer-geek parties, but the crowd was in the mood for something different. So we all made a bunch of characters very quickly and ran them through, and every time someone's character died, they had to remove an article of clothing. I believe it was after the first guy gave up his pants that we decided this could only end badly.”

 

Viviane regarded me with a very odd look. “And you do this for fun.”

 

“Not all the time. And that was one of the better parties I've attended. Normally, if there's alcohol involved, I wind up getting stuck checking all the really sloppy drunks for signs of alcohol poisoning and rolling people onto their sides if necessary. Hardly festive.”

 

“So you go to parties out of some codependent desire to save young burgeoning alcoholics from the consequences of their stupidity?”

 

“Not _consciously_ ,” I said. “Normally I go because someone I like is also going to attend, or because I've been specifically invited and don't want to snub anyone. But there was one party in my sophomore year where I stayed long after it had degenerated into the kind of drunken debauchery that's boring to the point of tears if you're the one not doing the debauching, because the establishment needed one clear-headed person in case of emergencies. And because my suitemates were throwing the party and I refused to be driven out of my own home on a rainy night by their shenanigans.”

 

“You're the therapist-in-training, not me,” Viviane said. “But isn't there a point in which you have to let other adults make their own bad decisions?”

 

“I was there anyway, and I guess something in the situation activated my dormant over-solicitous big sister instincts. I did manage to get my own back, though.” Even a year later, the memory of the Incident never failed to amuse me.

 

“How did that work out?”

 

“I'm sure we're both aware of the dangers of throwing up and then aspirating it.”

 

“Yes?” she said.

 

“Well, that's a fate that shouldn't happen to anyone, not even obnoxious sloppy drunks who pass out in the bedroom of a lady to whom they have not been introduced because they wandered in on their way to the suite's bathroom.”

 

“The cads,” Viviane said drily.

 

“I wasn't in a position to do much about their possible impending alcohol poisoning. The situation didn't seem dire enough to warrant calling the paramedics, a move which, in any case, would not have endeared me to the hostesses of the party unless someone's life was obviously on the line. So, I checked their pulse and respiration, hauled them out of the doorway and away from anything they could throw up on, and tried to find a way to prop them up in a safe position. I didn't have many spare cushions, and I didn't like the idea of giving myself extra stinky laundry for the benefit of a couple of drunk dumbasses I didn't even know – I'm a fairly nice girl, most of the time, but I'm not that good a Samaritan.”

 

“This was hardly your responsibility, anyway,” Viviane says. “You didn't invite them over or feed them imprudent amounts of alcohol. I think you were doing all that common human decency required by ensuring they finished the night un-asphyxiated and untrampled. Why weren't their friends looking out for them?”

 

“I don't know. Maybe their friends thought they'd gone home early. Or maybe their friends were distracted by that point in the evening.”

 

“Frailty, thy name is human,” Viviane said darkly.

 

“But eventually, the solution came to me. Now, my dad is basically a slightly younger, Italian-American lycanthropic Red Green-”

 

“Who?”

 

“You don't watch much TV, do you?” I asked.

 

“Correct. So much of it is... not interesting, and I am not adept at conforming to schedules imposed by others in any case. Even broadcasting.”

 

“Right, then.” I said. “To be brief, Red Green is the star of a TV comedy that's sort of an affectionate parody of the things middle-aged men get up to. Lots of do-it-yourselfer jokes. So, my dad gives me a fresh roll of duct tape every quarter. Never mind that for the first two years of my college career, I was living in the dorms. He insisted that it was better to have it and not need it than the reverse. Sometimes it even came in handy. So there I was with these two drunks that I had to prop up somehow so they didn't suffocate their fool selves, and suddenly it came to me – duct tape! So I kind of, well, secured them to the wall at a safe and appropriate angle, and let them sleep it off in place.”

 

“That sounds like a reasonable idea to me,” Viviane said. “Did it work?”

 

“Well,” I said. “Neither of them wound up throwing up in their sleep – which is really the best possible outcome for everyone involved in a situation like this, but it did mean I'd put in all that effort for naught. One of them just peeled himself out when he'd recovered his faculties, but the other guy woke up before he was really sober and tangled himself up something dreadful thrashing about. I had to cut him out myself and then he accused me of being 'some kind of kinky bondage freak.' Is that gratitude?”

 

“I would say not. But, as my mother would be happy to inform you, I am hardly an expert on the subject,” Viviane said dryly.

 

“Your mom likes to lay on the guilt a bit?”

 

“Let's just say that she... has broad notions of what is really her business and takes it personally when her wishes are violated, and leave it at that.” Viviane looked subtly uncomfortable, and I wondered if she regretted bringing her mom into the conversation.

 

“Certainly. Oh, do you have any specific plans for what you're going to do after you graduate?”

 

“I have a few ideas,” Viviane said. “Forensic science, perhaps. If circumstances force me to take a regular job.”

 

“So that's your practical day job backup plan? What else do you want to do?” I asked. “Be a concert cellist?”

 

“At one point I did,” Viviane said. “Currently I'm satisfied as an amateur musician.”

 

“So,” I said. “Something less sensible than forensics, but not music, and you haven't mentioned any other strong artistic interests. Do you want to keep up with your Sherlock Holmes deal?”

 

“If I can,” Viviane said. “People have been willing to pay for my services. I consider that promising.”

 

“Benadryl and tequila girl isn't an isolated case, then?” I asked. “How long have you been doing this?”

 

“My investigative attempts began in my preteen years,” Viviane said, “but I really only had the skills of any other tolerably observant person at that point, and my efforts went unappreciated. Certainly, nobody thought of paying me even when I did notice something useful. I started taking cases the summer after my first year at college. Most of my clients are students coming to me with concerns too minor to merit official involvement. I have had a few cases of more serious import. There are plenty of people who'd rather pay my perfectly reasonable fees than have the administration asking awkward questions.”

 

“My God,” I said, “Phrasing it like that makes it sound so noir!”

 

“Nothing so stylish,” Viviane said.

 

“What a shame,” I said. “Although I suppose it would be hard to keep up the monologue.” It was sunset, and I turned my chair a little to get a better view of the sun sinking over the bay. I noticed that Viviane was done with her gelato, and I was down to my last few bites.

 

“Indeed.” Viviane checked her watch. “Marcella. We have sufficient free time for another activity before the concert starts, if we keep our wits about us and don't get distracted. Would you like to go for a walk near the waterfront? It is very picturesque, particularly at night, and not impractically far away.”

 

“That sounds wonderful!” I said. “I need to stretch my legs anyway. Nothing like sitting still for too long to make it really hard to suppress the urge to chase moving objects.”

 

“I will have to take your word on that,” Viviane said dubiously.

 

I gathered up my dishes and headed inside. Viviane followed. “Actually, that's only really an issue for me on the full moon. It's a problem for my little brother Remy all the time, although part of that could be because he's a teenage boy.” We dropped our used dishes in the basin, Beatrice wished us a lovely evening, and Viviane and I were off.

 

By the time we left, the sun had set enough that we didn't have to squint as we walked downhill towards the bay, and the sky and water on the horizon both glowed red. I was no sailor – I wasn't even on the rowing crew – but I still hoped it was a good omen.

 


	5. Another First Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place the day after Viviane and Marcella go the concert.

   It was an early Saturday afternoon, and I was feeling pretty darn good about the universe and my place in it. The sun was shining, and I'd put on my comfortable shoes and hiked downtown to the Bellehaven Farmer's Market with a light step and a song in my heart. (Well, technically, a Schubert earworm.)  
  
    I mostly went to the market to browse and get some fresh air, since my apartment had a decent supply of groceries laid in at the moment. The buskers this week were an interesting mix. The percussionist-of-ambiguous-gender playing on an improvised drum kit that included an empty water cooler jug and a metal trashcan lid was new. I wondered where they acquired their instruments, since the city of Bellehaven uses plastic garbage cans for the most part. I mentally nicknamed the drummer “Angel Dumott Schunard” and left them a few quarters in appreciation of their avant-jazz-taiko creativity. I recognized the bearded young Utilikilted man playing the Irish bagpipes, but his partner with the bodhran from my last market day was nowhere to be seen. I briefly wondered if Viviane would have been enjoying herself under these circumstances. I got the impression that she wasn't a fan of crowds, but at this stage of our friendship, I didn't know at what point she drew the line between “lively and bustling” and “oh Lord, make it go away.”  
  
    The market always attracted a broad range of people, and I wondered what Viviane would make of my fellow attendees. Everyone was milling around too much for proper scrutiny, but I tried to get in a little observation and inference when someone caught my eye. The woman with the multicolored dreads went hiking recently – somewhere with reddish clay soil, so probably out of town. The pasty gentleman with the wrist brace: unmarried, serious coffee drinker, computer worker? It was all fairly basic superficial details, and I had no means of checking my own accuracy, but I was enjoying myself.  
  
    My only purchase wound up being a cup of hot spiced cider from a local orchardist. There was plenty of interesting merchandise around, but nothing that screamed “buy me now,” which was all to the good as far as my budget was concerned. The winter gift-giving holidays were more than two months away, and in Viviane's case, I needed to learn more about her tastes before I bought her any Christmas presents.  
  
    Since I was downtown anyway, I decided I might as well run a few errands. Hit the public library and lay in a new stash of cheesy fantasy paperbacks – the university library was great for nonfiction on all kinds of odd subjects, but not so big on the light reading with no pretensions to being “literature.” Now, I like my nineteenth century melodrama as much as the next girl, but sometimes one just wants to read about superpowered teenage girls with shiny magical nonhumanoid sidekicks. I'd left the market and had gone about two blocks toward the library when my cell phone beeped. A text. From someone with a Seattle area code, who wasn't on my contacts list. Odd.  
  
    It read: _What is your connection with Viviane Malifaux?_ Double odd. Jealous significant other? Viviane had said she was single, and I had no reason to doubt her. Jealous ex? Completely platonic nosiness?  
  
    I replied: _Excuse me but who are you?_ and headed off briskly toward the library. I didn't know whether to hope they dropped it, or hope they'd reply and give me some more information. I was curious about what on earth was going on, but this was kind of creepy.  
  
    Another text. _Let's just call me an interested party, Ms. Argento. Believe that I have both Ms. Malifaux's and your own best interests at heart._  
  
    I replied: _Appreciate your concern but I don't give out personal info to strangers. Sorry!_ This was getting more enigmatic by the minute. At least now I was fairly sure it wasn't romantic jealousy at work. A lover feeling betrayed would have been more overtly hostile or indignant. I kept heading toward the library and wondered if I'd ever get to the bottom of this.  
  
    I was nearly at the library doors when I heard a phone ringing. It wasn't my ringtone, and when I looked around, I realized that there was nobody nearby whose cell phone might be ringing. It was coming from the pay phone just outside the library front doors.  
  
    What. The. Hell. What the Hell, Heaven, Purgatory, and Limbo! I had no idea what exactly was happening, or how, but I sincerely doubted this is a coincidence.  
  
    I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I automatically tried to repress the irritation in my voice, and immediately wondered why I bothered.  
  
    “Hello, Ms. Argento,” said the voice at the other end. It was an adult woman – a bit deeper than my own voice, but higher than Viviane's. Maybe a dramatic mezzo or light alto. The accent was mostly West Coast American like my own, but with something about it that registered as “posh” or “cultivated.” No sign of a speech impediment or respiratory issues. “I hope I have not unduly inconvenienced you,” she continued.  
  
    “Inconvenience isn't really the word I'd use,” I said. “If I may be blunt for a minute – who are you and what do you want?”  
  
    “All in good time, Ms. Argento,” she said. “Clearly, we both have questions we want answered, and electronic communications has proven unsatisfactory for both of us. A face-to-face exchange of information has the potential to be much more informative.”  
  
    “Excuse me?!”  
  
    “In five minutes, a black 1972 Buick Riviera with tinted windows will park in the empty non-handicapped parking spot nearest to the library's back doors. It will take you to the rendezvous point. Our encounter should be over in half an hour or less.”  
  
    “Excuse me?! I know nothing about you, except that you have slightly creepy quasi-omniscience and odd notions of etiquette, and you expect me to get into a car under your control and meet you in an unspecified location, by myself? Not in the cards, madam. No offense.”  
  
    “Really, Ms. Argento. Your paranoia and stubbornness are not helping either of us get what we want. Be reasonable.”  
  
    “I believe that a certain basic concern for my personal safety is reasonable, ma'am, but I'm willing to agree to disagree on this. Look: you clearly know how to get in contact with me, so I'm going to assume that, if you cared to, you could easily use your magic creeper powers to find out enough about me to create a brief and reasonably accurate biographic sketch. I'm not, in principle, necessarily completely unwilling to talk to you. I'm not keeping any secrets here. I'm just not comfortable talking about my personal life to a disembodied voice I have no context for. I'm not asking for your Social Security number and tax records, here. It's just rather disconcerting being asked for personal information out of the blue without being properly introduced.”  
  
    “Is it, now.” My mysterious contact's tone of voice was perfectly deadpan, but I fancied I heard a hint of what would be an exasperated sigh in someone less impeccably well-bred.  
  
    “It is. At least to me, and I don't believe I'm being wildly out of step with conventional etiquette on that front. Not to mention that business about asking people who don't know you to get into strange cars and be whisked off to locations unknown is considered just a bit skeevy in certain circles, no offense.”  
  
    “Very well,” the mystery lady said, perhaps a bit more coldly than before. Good heavens, was she sulking? “Goodbye.”  
  
    “Goodbye, ma'am,” I said cheerfully, and hing up. I didn't know whether to hope that she'd grown sick of this whole business and would leave me alone, or that she'd make contact again and I'd actually get some answers. The whole business had been just a bit disturbing, but it was a distinctive enough brand of creepiness that I'd gotten curious. At least this would be something interesting to tell Viviane about the next time I saw her.  
  
    I looked over all the posters and fliers near the library entrance, looking for any upcoming events that might be interesting. The Chinese chamber orchestra sounded like it had potential. I wondered if Viviane liked world music. I made my way to the New Books display, the adult graphic novels, and and science fiction and fantasy paperbacks half expecting to be accosted by a messenger pigeon or something equally outre, but I didn't even get a beep from my phone. There was a low table surrounded by empty chairs near the paperback display, and I sat down with my haul to do a little light reading. I was about a third of the way into “Three Septembers and a January” when I heard a soft cough, quite close by. It wasn't a sickly cough, or a throat-clearing cough, it was pretty clearly an “ahem” cough. I looked up from my _Sandman_ anthology, and noticed that a white woman in a dark suit had noiselessly settled into the chair across from me, and appeared to be watching me intently. “Hello?” I said softly. “You wanted to talk to me?”  
  
    “Yes,” the woman said. She was half whispering, but I was fairly sure it was the same voice. My mystery contact looked about thirty, with very fair, lightly freckled skin, pale intense eyes, and coppery blonde hair pulled back into what might have been the tightest of all possible French twists. She was a little taller than me, a bit slimmer, and not as muscular, but closer to my own build than Viviane's supermodel-gangliness. Her facial structure reminded me of Tilda Swinton, although this woman was a little squarer in the jaw and has a slightly more aquiline nose. She was wearing a black tailored skirt suit made from some quietly expensive medium-weight natural fabric – I wasn't certain, but possibly a wool-silk blend - a silk blouse, unscuffed pointy-toed medium heel pumps, unostentatious pearl and white gold jewelry that probably cost more than a quarter's tuition, and little rectangular wire-rimmed glasses. Everything fit perfectly. She smelled cool, icy-green, and slick, like lily of the valley soap, with a bit of the faded maroon rumpled velvet of cafe latte, the crumbly pastel sharp edges of mint gum, and a faded golden brown slubby-silk perfume I didn't recognize. Whatever she was wearing, it couldn't have been cheap, since I was fairly sure I smelled real sandalwood. What would someone like this have want with someone like me?  
  
    “Well, what is it you wanted to talk about?” I asked. Technically, she'd already told me, but I wanted some details this time.  
  
    “I would like to know what your relationship is with Viviane Malifaux,” she said.  
  
    “We're friends? We've spent less five hours total in each others company, but I'd say we have a good rapport. You know, we talk, go out to eat together, go to concerts, solve minor mysteries... you know, friend things.”  
  
    “Ah. I see. And that is all?”  
  
    “Well, I currently have a roommate, and moving house in the middle of the quarter is kind of a pain in any case, so we're not planning on moving in together at present, if that's what you're asking. And Viviane said that dating wasn't her area, so that's not an issue.” Mystery woman raised an eyebrow at this, but didn't say anything. “So, yeah, we got on very well so far, and I really hope we don't fall out of touch or get sick of each other.”  
  
    “Ms. Argento,” my mysterious contact said, “what is your relationship with drugs? Be honest.” Okay, I hadn't been expecting _that_.  
  
    “I'm a nonsmoker,” I told her. “Which you could probably smell on my clothes, if you were looking for it. Light drinker, but I don't drink much at all when left to my own devices because decent stuff is kind of expensive and rotgut isn't worth the bother. No experience with hard drugs, and no desire for such.” I'd been speaking softly already, but I dropped my volume a bit more for the next part. “Tried half a pot brownie once, found the experience interesting in its way but not something I'd go to any trouble to repeat. Plus, it wasn't a very good brownie. Someone needed baking lessons.”  
  
    “Indeed,” she said.  
  
    “Now, I've answered your questions,” I told her. “Care to tell me a little about yourself?”  
  
    “I am someone who has a legitimate interest in looking after Ms. Malifaux's interests,” she said.  
  
    “Right,” I said. “Very informative. Mind if I guess? You're not a former lover – little out of her age range, plus you aren't acting like one. A friend would have just asked Viviane. You look a bit like her, and busybodying makes more sense if you're related, although I still don't know why you couldn't just ask Viviane. Too young to be her mother, unless plastic surgery nowadays is more advanced than I'd realized. Okay, sorry, that sounded bad. More likely a significantly older sister or stepsister, or a young aunt. Maybe a cousin. Wow, that Gilbert and Sullivan reference was completely unintentional.”  
  
    Mystery woman closed her eyes briefly, and looks like she really wanted to sigh, or rub her forehead, or do something that conveyed emotion. “She must be rubbing off on you. Very well. If you must know, I am her older sister.”  
  
    “And you wanted to make sure baby sis wasn't being debauched by a crazed dope fiend. Okay, that's not inherently unreasonable. What's your name, by the way?”  
  
    “Undine Malifaux.”  
  
    “Like the water spirits? Wow, Undine and Viviane, were your parents hard core pre-Raphaelite fans or something?”  
  
    “I really cannot say.”  
  
    “All right, then,” I said. “I hope I've set your mind at ease. Now, if you don't have any more urgent matters to discuss, I'd like to get on with my day. It's been interesting meeting you.”  
  
    “Goodbye, Ms. Argento,” Undine whispered crisply, which is a combination I'd never encountered before that day. I hoped I hadn't inadvertently terribly insulted her, but the matter didn't worry me too much. She wasn't really in a position to be an Etiquette Fascista.  
  
    “Goodbye, Ms. Malifaux Major!” I sent her off with a cheery little wave, which I considered rather magnanimous of myself, under the circumstances. Undine stood up, placed a folded piece of stationery on the table, nodded briskly to me, and walked off. In the time it took for me to grab the note and put it in my jacket pocket, she disappeared. I wondered if she'd ducked into the stacks, or if she had some odd teleportation power that only activated when nobody was looking directly at her.  
  
    The note was handwritten, in ink, on ivory monogrammed paper. It read:  
    _Dear Ms. Argento:  
    Thank you for your cooperation. I hope that we have established a sufficient level of mutual trust to expedite our future interactions. My contact information is enclosed for future reference.  
    Tell Viviane nothing._  
  
    I shook my head. _You don't presume much, do you?_ If one of my quasi-omniscient creeper relatives happened to be in town and was stalking my friends, I'd have wanted to know about it. I made a little note to tell Viviane about this on the back of the paper, and use the rest of the space to copy down the date and time of the Chinese concert.


End file.
